‘What are you doing here?’
‘Ah, my wife’s been sick and I had a prescription filled and left it at work,’ McCorkindale told him as he made it to his desk, snapped up a small paper bag and headed back for the door. ‘I figured she might be able to get through the night without it, but no such luck.’ He was now halfway to the door, still moving ponderously among the desks, the paper bag tucked under his right arm. ‘Thanks for getting that pistol back to Property,’ he said as he made it back to the light switch. ‘You want me to turn these things off again?’
Ben sat up slightly. ‘What pistol?’
‘The one you turned back into Property,’ McCorkindale said impatiently. ‘They’d marked it wrong, though.’
‘Who had?’
‘Morgue.’
‘Are you talking about a twenty-two pistol?’
‘That’s right. Cute little thing.’
‘It was used in a murder.’
McCorkindale laughed. ‘No way, Ben.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it was missing from Property,’ McCorkindale said. ‘That’s where it came from. Same serial numbers. It was the only weapon that was missing when I was logging everything in a few days ago.’
Ben felt his body rise almost involuntarily. ‘Missing? You mean it had once been in Property?’
‘That’s right,’ McCorkindale said. ‘Confiscated in a holdup.’
‘Who made the arrest?’
‘Breedlove,’ McCorkindale said casually. ‘Good old Charlie Breedlove.’ Then he flipped off the lights.
THIRTY
The heat was still hanging like a thick web in the air as Ben pulled up just across the street from Breedlove’s house. It was dark, with the shades drawn tightly down over the windows, and not so much as a lone porch light to relieve the surrounding night. The plain gravel driveway was empty, and because of that, Ben knew that Breedlove was not at home. Like almost everyone else in the city, he lived by his car, and when it wasn’t at home, neither was its owner. He looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. He leaned forward slightly, wrapping his arms loosely around the steering wheel. The windows of Breedlove’s house were tightly closed, despite the heat, and Ben wondered if it was possible that Breedlove’s family, his wife and young son, were also gone.
For a long time he simply sat in his car and watched the house. Slowly, the long day’s weariness began to overtake him, a heaviness in his legs and arms that seemed to press him down in the seat. To relieve it, he stepped out of the car, lit a cigarette and walked for a while down the narrow, tree-lined street. All the houses were dark, their windows staring toward him like bruised eyes. The world was asleep, it seemed to him, but only fitfully. The tension in the city had not been washed away by the water hoses, and as he continued down the winding, cracked sidewalk, Ben tried to imagine what the next step might be. He could see the Chief’s white tank as it circled Kelly Ingram Park, and Black Cat 13 as it prowled the back streets of the Negro district like a marauding beast, slow, sullen, sniffing the air for prey. It was as if something had gone so deeply wrong in the past that it was no longer recoverable, and so the old weight only grew heavier with each day, sinking the city with it, drawing it down forever.
He made a right, walking silently, then another and another until he found himself back at the car. He pulled himself in behind the wheel, sighing heavily with the heat and his own still unrelieved exhaustion, and fixed his eyes on the house until the first hint of early morning light began to gather around it, betraying its flecked paint and torn screens, its pitted driveway and bleak, untended yard.
The light was still barely visible in the air when the first car came up the street only a few minutes later. Ben sat up, rubbed his eyes quickly and watched as it nosed around the far corner, moved slowly up the street, then halted in front of Breedlove’s house.
Ben leaned forward and rubbed the dewy mist which had gathered on the inside of the windshield with the sleeve of his jacket.
The car was black and dusty, like so many others, and Ben didn’t recognize it at all until he saw Luther pull himself out from behind the wheel, then walk hurriedly up the walkway, linger for a moment on the porch, his shoulders hunched over, his back to the street. He knocked several times, but the door remained closed.
Ben checked his watch. It was five-fifteen. He rolled the ache out of his shoulders, rubbed his slightly burning eyes again and glanced back at the house. The door was still closed and the windowshades remained securely drawn.
For a while Luther remained on the porch. Then he turned back toward the street, glanced left and right and finally stepped off the porch and headed hurriedly toward his car. He had already opened the door when he saw Ben coming toward him. For an instant he froze, his eyes fixed intently on Ben’s face.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked sternly.
Ben stepped up onto the walkway beside him. ‘I was waiting for Breedlove.’
‘Why?’
‘That gun, the one that killed the little girl,’ Ben told him. ‘It came out of the Property Room. It was taken in a robbery. Breedlove’s case. I thought he might know whose gun it was.’
‘How do you know it was missing from Property?’
‘McCorkindale did some kind of inventory a few days ago,’ Ben told him. ‘He logged everything. It was the only gun that was missing.’
Luther continued to stare at Ben expressionlessly. ‘Is that all?’
It seemed an odd question, but Ben answered it anyway. ‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve been waiting here all night?’
‘Most of it.’
Luther thought for a moment. He took a deep breath. ‘All right, Ben. Since you’re here, you might as well come with me.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Luther nodded toward the car. ‘Get in,’ he said softly. ‘I have to go look at something.’
Ben got into the car and sat silently as Luther headed down the street, turned left, then continued northward until the short, brick skyline of Birmingham was miles behind them.
‘We’re going out of our jurisdiction, Ben,’ Luther told him. ‘But I guess you have to say that things like that have gotten sort of blurry lately.’
There was a strained quality in Luther’s face, a determined stiffness, as if he were trying to keep himself under control. Sometimes it looked like fear, sometimes anger, but whatever it was, Ben realized that it was different from anything he’d ever seen in Luther before.
‘I was born up here,’ Luther went on. He smiled gently as he looked at the landscape which surrounded them. The morning light had now brightened enough to reveal the thick green woods which spread out to the north of the city. Lines of gently rolling mountains rose on either side of the road, and the sound of crows and hawks could be heard occasionally over the rattle of the engine and the whir of the wind that poured through the open windows.
‘Where are we going?’ Ben asked.
‘Used to fish and swim,’ Luther went on obliviously. ‘Met my wife up here. She was a mountain girl.’
‘Where are we going?’ Ben repeated.
Luther cleared his throat roughly. His eyes shifted over to the left, out the side window, then returned almost immediately to the road. ‘I got a call this morning. The sheriff up here, he’s an old friend of mine.’ He smiled briefly. ‘He had the sweets for my wife way back when, a million years ago, when everybody still had a little piss and vinegar in their goddamn veins.’
Ben leaned toward him slightly, his eyes watching him closely. ‘What were you doing at Breedlove’s this morning?’ he asked.
‘I got a call, just like I said,’ Luther replied.
‘About what?’
‘About Breedlove,’ Luther said. He turned back to the road, slowing the car more and more until they came to a narrow unpaved road. Then he made a hard right turn and headed down it until they reached a clearing to the right. He pulled far over to the side, vines and low-slung t
ree limbs brushing across the side of the car.
‘Get out,’ he said as he brought the car to a stop.
Ben suddenly felt himself trapped in some sort of net he had not seen.
‘Get out?’ he asked.
Luther nodded. ‘That’s right.’
Ben stared about. ‘Where are we?’
‘Jackson County,’ Luther said. ‘Like I told you, my old stomping ground.’
Ben pushed the door against the thick brush that pressed in against it and got out of the car.
‘It’s just a little walk from here,’ Luther told him. ‘Just follow me.’
Luther headed briskly down the narrowing dirt path until they came to a second car. It was painted light blue and it bore the letters SHERIFF’S OFFICE in large white letters. The man who got out of it was dressed in plain khaki pants and a white short-sleeved shirt with a silver star hanging loosely from the pocket.
‘Hey, Luther,’ the man said.
‘How you doing, Fred?’
‘Not good, but I guess you already know that.’
‘Where is it?’ Luther asked.
‘Up top the hill,’ the sheriff said. ‘Nobody tried to hide it, that’s for sure.’
Luther patted the sheriff on the shoulder. ‘Thanks for letting me know, Fred. We’ll go on up by ourselves if that’s okay with you.’
‘Sure enough. Just let me know what you want to do’
‘Okay,’ Luther said. Then he turned and headed up the hill, waving Ben along to follow him.
The air grew cooler as they continued through the deep wet grass. Luther was silent, his eyes fixed on the curved hill which rose above him. He walked slowly, determinedly, but from time to time he would glance back toward Ben as if trying to study his face or the loose sway of his body.
Ben could feel his body tightening. ‘Somebody called Leon Patterson yesterday,’ he said.
Luther said nothing.
‘They wanted to know how long you could tell what race a person was after they’d been buried,’ Ben added significantly.
Luther continued forward, now breathing heavily after the long pull up the hill, his forehead beaded with sweat.
‘Leon thought that maybe whoever it was that called, that he might be planning something.’
‘To murder somebody,’ Luther said casually, as if only partly interested. ‘To murder a colored guy.’
‘That’s right,’ Ben said.
Luther continued to drive himself forward, his heavy legs staggering through the lengthening grass. His trousers were wet with dew, and Ben could see them clinging to his thighs and backside.
‘So,’ Ben added, ‘if what you’ve got up here is a –’
Luther stopped just as he crested the hill. A long flat field spread out before them, and near the middle of it, a tall elm stood, its large green leaves fluttering slightly in the breeze.
‘There it is,’ Luther said as he pointed to the tree. His eyes glistened slightly in the light, and for a moment he seemed lost for words.
Ben stared at the tree. It was only a few yards away, and it was easy to see the body hanging from its large trunk. The head was slumped downward, the feet together, the arms flung out and, as Ben could see clearly after a moment, strapped to two large branches.
‘Breedlove,’ Ben whispered.
‘Fred said he looked like Jesus,’ Luther said. ‘Like Jesus on the cross.’
Neither of them moved toward him. For a moment they simply stood together and stared at the body. A thin early morning haze surrounded them, as if to cover the harsh details which Ben began to see as he continued to look at the body. It had been tied at the wrists, the feet roped together.
Luther shook his head. ‘Sometimes I think there must be a curse on us.’ He looked at Ben. ‘Like voodoo or something. Some of the colored believe in that stuff, don’t they?’
Ben said nothing.
Luther stepped forward slightly, his eyes squinting hard as he peered toward the body. ‘I didn’t know him very well, did you?’
‘No.’
Luther looked at Ben. ‘You got any idea where his family is?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t see them at all last night?’
‘No.’
‘Got any idea what he was doing out here?’
Ben shook his head.
Luther wheeled around to face him, his eyes red-rimmed, his body trembling. ‘Don’t hide nothing from me, Ben,’ he cried. ‘Don’t be that stupid.’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘Bullshit,’ Luther snapped. ‘What the hell were you doing parked outside his house?’
‘I was just waiting for him,’ Ben said.
‘Because of that gun thing?’
‘That’s right, Captain,’ Ben said firmly.
Luther stared at him intently. ‘I don’t know whether to believe you or not,’ he said. ‘That’s why I wouldn’t tell you anything on the way up here. I wanted to keep an eye on you, maybe shake something out of you.’
Ben’s eyes shifted over to Breedlove’s body. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with this.’ He turned back to Luther. ‘And I don’t have any idea who did.’
‘What about his family?’ Luther asked. ‘You know where they are?’
‘No.’
‘You got any idea how long they been gone?’
‘No,’ Ben repeated.
Luther continued to watch him doubtfully. ‘Don’t hold anything back on me, Ben,’ he warned. ‘If you do, I’ll bust you down. You’ll be lucky to have a foot post in a cemetery.’
‘I don’t know anything, Captain.’
‘All right,’ Luther said weakly. ‘I don’t have any choice but to believe you.’ He looked back toward the center of the field. ‘Let’s go see what we can find out.’
Ben followed along at Luther’s side, stepping quietly through the tall grass until the two of them stood beside the body. Breedlove’s shirt had been ripped open, and the word INFORMER had been crudely cut into his chest.
‘Oh, God,’ Luther whispered as he stared at the hanging body. ‘Who would do something like this?’
Ben’s eyes drifted up from the chest until they reached Breedlove’s stricken face. One eye was open, the other half-closed. Blood ran from both ears and trickled down to the neck and shoulders. It had gushed from the nose in a torrent, running down into the shattered mouth. The mouth itself was wide open, and Ben could see a small wink of light come through it from the cluttered hole at the back of Breedlove’s head.
‘They put the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger,’ Luther said.
Ben nodded.
‘It’s just like Fred described it,’ Luther added. ‘They strung him up like a goddamn pig.’
‘It took more than one,’ Ben said matter-of-factly.
‘Course it did,’ Luther said. He took out his camera, then stepped back and took a picture. ‘Two at least,’ he added. ‘Maybe three.’
‘Yeah.’
Luther nosed the tip of his shoe into the soft black earth. ‘They could have buried him,’ he said contemptuously. ‘In this ground it would have been easy.’
‘They didn’t want to,’ Ben said. ‘They wanted to make an example of him.’
‘Example of what?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ben said. He looked down at the ground around the tree. It was splattered with blood, and from the look of the way the tall grass had been beaten to the ground, it looked as if Breedlove had put up a fierce but ultimately hopeless fight before they’d killed him.
Ben pulled one of the long green reeds which had been trampled down and stared at the small dot of dried blood which clung to it. ‘Why do you think they brought him way up here?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Luther said. ‘I’m not even sure they did.’
Ben looked at him. ‘Well, why would he have come up here on his own?’
Luther shrugged. ‘I don’t know that either,’ he said, ‘But I do know that Fred found his
car right down the road back there. His police ID was on the dashboard. That’s why Fred called me.’
‘But you don’t have any idea what he was doing up here?’
Luther shook his head firmly. ‘No, I don’t.’
A siren could be heard suddenly, growing louder with each passing second.
‘They’re coming from Birmingham,’ Luther explained. ‘Fred said it was okay to take Breedlove back.’ His eyes lifted toward the terribly torn and violated face. ‘I told him that he was one of ours, and that we’d find out who did this to him.’ He looked at Ben pointedly. ‘But I’m not sure we can,’ he said. Then he turned away quickly, plowing through the deep grass until he reached the road.
THIRTY-ONE
At eight in the morning, the Chief marched to the front of the detective bullpen and made the announcement. He bowed his head slightly before beginning, then glared fiercely out into the assembled detectives.
‘We’ve lost one of our own,’ he declared, his small blue eyes narrowing tightly. ‘We don’t know how it happened, but, by Jesus, gentlemen, we’re going to find out.’ His large, bulldog face squeezed together determinedly. ‘Nobody does something like this to one of our boys and gets away with it.’
The detectives exchanged puzzled glances. Across the room, Ben could see Daniels standing alone, while a few yards away, near the opposite corner, the Langleys stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes fixed on the Chief.
‘Gentlemen,’ the Chief said slowly, his voice suddenly low and mournful, ‘Charlie Breedlove is no longer with us.’
A confused murmur rose in the room, muffled and indecipherable.
The Chief waited for it to die away, then continued. ‘I’d like to be able to say – well, I wouldn’t like it – but it would be better if I could say that Detective Breedlove had died of natural causes, or in a car wreck, or something like that.’ He paused, his face growing tense and angry. ‘But, gentlemen, that is not the case here. The case is, gentlemen, that a person or persons did this thing to Detective Breedlove. What I mean to say is, they murdered him in cold blood.’
A wave of noise and shifting about swept the room, and again the Chief waited for it to fade to silence.
Streets of Fire Page 23
